I Just Wanted a Simple Plug-in Lamp

PROLOGUE

I do not do things mechanical well. I have not mastered most of the electronic devices many people take for granted. And I recently learned I don’t even plug in lamps very well. Let me explain.

I have a very small space in which to work on my novels, novellas, and short stories, and proper lighting is a bit of a problem. For years, I’ve had a wall-mounted, plug-in lamp with a moveable elbow that adjusts back and forth so I can have light whether I’m slouching (as I am now) or sitting at the desk with proper posture (well, I’m doing that now, although it won’t last very long).

Some time back, I switched all my light bulbs from nice, soft, energy-intensive incandescent bulbs to those ugly, twisted luminescent, energy-saving monstrosities. The problem was, I had a three-way socket in the lamp, but a bulb that worked only at one setting. So for a couple of years, I’ve had to twist the thing-a-ma-jig that turns on the light three times before it came on. A year ago, it started requiring four turns. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps the lamp developed a fourth setting.

Then a month ago, I had to turn the switch six times before it lit. Well, you can guess the rest. Last week it didn’t matter how many times I turned the switch…no light. I tried the bulb in another lamp to make sure it wasn’t the problem. It worked fine. Ergo, the lamp was shot.

CHAPTER 1

Too bad. I liked my lamp. It had served me faithfully for a long time. I had created and sold sixty short stories, a novella, and five novels by the light of that lamp. Now I had a problem, I had a deadline on another novel, so I couldn’t afford to go maudlin over a brass lamp I’d bought it for $20 from one of the big box stores. Man up, Don, and go spend another $20.

Yeah, right. I went to Lowe’s where I thought I’d bought the lamp years ago. Couldn’t find another one like it. The closest I came was a somewhat similar one that cost a heck of a lot more than my original $20. So I bit the $42 bullet…and then took a bigger bite. I paid $10 for a big, ugly, twisted three-way bulb. Problem solved.

CHAPTER 2

Another thing I don’t do well is follow written instructions for assembling things. Anything at all. After I pulled everything from the box and tore open all the little pouches holding screws and bolts and other mysterious things, I noticed something sort of odd about one of the instructions. “TURN OFF ALL POWER TO THIS AREA BEFORE PROCEEDING.” Really? Just to plug in a lamp. Another thing, why did I need electrical tape to wall-mount a lamp and plug it in? And why didn’t my lamp have a cord?

Aw, crap! The store had sold me a lamp to be wired into a wall circuit. Didn’t the clerk know I just wanted to plug it into a socket? Come to think of it, I probably didn’t tell him.

CHAPTER 3

I did what I should have done in the first place: I took a minute to think about my problem. Then I got out my phone book (yep, I still use them…they’re not electronic) and found a couple of retail lamp shops that also advertised repair work. I phoned the closest one, and a very nice woman asked some intelligent questions and said that while the shop had some new lamps similar to what I described for around $200, she suggested I bring mine to the shop for a simple socket change at a cost of $14.75 plus tax. When she added the repair could probably be done while I waited, I thought this was precisely the way to solve my problem.

I collected the useless new lamp I’d bought, found the receipt from Lowes, and raced over on San Pedro NE near Coronado Mall to the lamp retail and repair shop. I sensed a problem when I entered. There were a number of customers in the small shop, and they were all looking at $200 lamps, not a $14.75 repair job. Nonetheless, the woman who’d talked to me on the telephone took my lamp into the back to see what she could do.

Moments later, she reappeared, saying the lamp could be repaired, but it was a more difficult job than she had anticipated. The price would be the same, but she couldn’t promise my lamp before the day after tomorrow. Still under the spell of spending $14.75 plus tax versus $42, I told her to write it up.

CHAPTER 4

I had no sooner pulled out of the shop’s parking lot than I came face to face with the reality that I wouldn’t be able to work on my novel for the better part of three days. How could I live with that? Conclusion: I couldn’t.

I headed straight for Wal-Marts, Targets, and a couple of other places in a vain hunt for an acceptable substitute before thinking of Home Depot. Maybe they had a lamp like my old one for $25.00 or so (to allow for inflation). Well, they had one (with a pewter finish rather than brass), but it came to $37.00, including tax. In my panicked mode, I bought the lamp.

After pulling out of their parking lot, I faced up to the fact that I had two lamps plus my original waiting to be repaired. And at this point, I had $93.75 invested in replacing a $20 lamp.

So I set out to correct the situation. Lowes accepted my return and gave me back $42. Then I raced home and dialed the repair shop. The same woman accepted the fact I’d sort of “found” a lamp (okay, so I lied to the nice lady and said a neighbor had given me one he wasn’t using) and agreed to tear up the repair order. Another $14.75 recouped. Now I was down to one lamp at a cost of $37 plus a big, expensive bulb. I glanced at my watch. And it had only taken me six hours to do it.

EPILOGUE

The woman at the lamp repair shop agreed to fix my old lamp at her expense and donate it to a charity provided I would bring in the rest of it (shade, wall mounts, etc.). Feeling very noble, I took them in the very next day.

However, the experience reminded me of another personal failing. I don’t repack boxes very efficiently. When I had returned everything to Lowes, it required the box the lamp came in plus a plastic bag filled with things I couldn’t stuff back in it.

I really miss my late wife. She could fix everything from broken dishwashers to balky dryers. Me, I just look at them and call a repair man. She would probably have popped out the old socket and sent me to the store for a $5 replacement. Of course, I would have come home with the wrong one and had to make two more return trips to get the proper one.

Think I’ll stick to writing.

Next week: Maybe we’ll take a look at some of the New Mexico locations featured in THE BISTI BUSINESS.

New posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

How Men Fold Fitted Sheets

Perhaps I shouldn’t presume to speak for all men. I’m merely one guy who is admittedly deficient in the hand-eye coordination and motor skills required to perform complicated maneuvers, such as—folding fitted sheets. You women may assume I simply wad them up and toss them into the linen drawer, but this is a serious subject, and I am addressing it seriously.

The sheets in question are the first fifteen hundred thread-count, pure Egyptian cotton queen-sized linens I’ve ever owned. I’m not exactly certain what a fifteen hundred thread-count is, nor am I sure if Egyptian cotton is any better than say—Mississippi cotton. Such superiority could be fact-based or simply a matter of snobbery. Do Egyptians brag about their fifteen hundred thread-count, pure New Mexican cotton sheets?

My late wife taught me to launder new items before using them for the first time. In fact, all of my husbandly lore was acquired after I met Betty. It is nothing short of a miracle I survived my college years and my army service ignorant of such crucial information. Within six months of my wife’s passing, I had this housekeeping thing whipped. I could feed myself utilizing only a refrigerator, a freezer, and a microwave. I had acquired a passing acquaintance with a vacuum cleaner, a dishwasher, and a dust rag. However, my confidence slipped a notch when I discovered I’d been doing laundry with fabric softener instead of detergent for the past thirty days. Okay, my clothes were a little dingy but, man, were they soft. A few buttons fell off and a seam disintegrated on a jacket, but I’m not aware of any cause/effect relationship there.

At any rate, after removing my new sheets from the dryer, I buried my face in the still-warm bedding and inhaled the aroma of lilacs. Actually, it was only Resolve Spray & Wash stain remover. I folded the incredibly soft, ivory-hued top sheet and the four—count them four—fancy pillow slips. I hadn’t known Egyptians slept with one pillow at the head and another at the foot. It must be one of those different cultures/different customs things. As I placed these folded items into the bureau, I felt a bit ashamed. The only other things in there were common, ordinary bed sheets, not royal linens tracing their lineage back to the Pharaohs.

Next, I tackled the dreaded fitted sheet. After nestling two corners—one into the other—as I’d seen Betty do, I did the same with the other end pieces. Next, I grasped the four corners—now made two—and flapped the sheet to smooth it out. It settled gracefully across the plain white, plebeian mattress cover, but when I let go of the corners, it wadded up like last year’s discarded Christmas wrapping.

I repeated the procedure and brought all the form-fitted ends into one another, expecting to achieve a neat rectangle. Not so. That springy, stretchy cord sewn into the hem puckered into a pale imitation of a prune. Where the hell did their elastic come from? Not Egypt. It seemed more Teutonic in its tenacity.

Maybe the springy band needed stretching. I did the nesting thing again and pulled the opposing corners apart as far as my arms would reach. Anxious to see if this had accomplished the desired effect, I let go with one hand. The corners shot past my head and hit the lamp on the bed table. I grabbed it in time to avert disaster, but now my clean sheet lay in a heap on the floor. No big deal. My carpet wasn’t due for its semi-annual vacuuming for another couple of months.

The elastic was just too strong. It needed more stretching than the width of my arms. I may lack motor skills, but I do have a brain and the ability to think. I hooked one set of nested corners over the bedroom doorknob and held the other in my hand. I slowly backed across the room, pulling the elastic tighter and tighter in a celebration of the triumph of mind over matter. That up-tight cord was going to relax its grip enough to make the sheet behave.

At that moment, the fifteen hundred thread-count, pure Egyptian cotton fitted corners slipped off the brass knob and caught me flush in the left eye. The one I’d been babying ever since cataract surgery.

My respect for Egyptian nobility considerably diminished, I blinked hard a couple of times and tackled the sheet again. Ignoring the wrinkled hemlines, I folded them inward to bury their obscene ugliness beneath the ivory expanse of the unpuckered side.

By the time I laid the blessed thing in the drawer atop its companion pieces, the entire folding process had taken only twenty-five minutes. But you know, the damned sheet did sort of look as if I’d wadded it up and thrown it in the drawer.

Next Week: Don't have any idea yet...my mind hasn't caught up with my ambitions

New Posts published each Thursday at 6 a.m.

Zozobra’s not the only big doll we burn: Meet El Kookooee

Official Logo of elkookooee.org

Back in August, one of my first blog posts described the burning of a fifty-foot marionette called Zozobra or Old Man Gloom in Santa Fe. It turns out that’s not the only big doll we burn in New Mexico.

Leslie Linthicum’s UpFront column in the Albuquerque Journal on October 28 reminded me of our similar treatment of El Kookooee. This fellow’s an out-and-out boogeyman, designed to frighten children (and some adults?) into behaving, whereas Zozobra simply burns up our troubles and problems of the last year.

El Kookooee has existed for centuries in the Latin American cultures, known variously as El Cucui, El Coco, Cocoman…and El Koo-koo-ee. In 1989 or 1990 (reports differ), famed New Mexico author, Rudolfo Anaya, proposed to a group of Chicano artists in Albuquerque that they construct a figure of the boogeyman and burn him at dusk as a way of doing away with both personal and communal fears.

Since that time, the Festival de Otoño (the Autumn Festival) in Albuquerque’s south valley ends with the symbolic burning of this “bulto of fears.” The first effigy of wood, paper, and metal was sixteen feet tall. He’s grown to around thirty feet, but remains a static figure (unlike Zozobra, which is animated).

Ms. Linthicum’s article (which I recommend you read) describes this year’s conflagration of El Kookooee. She points out that Zozobra is a “relatively modern martyr sacrificed to exorcise our collective worry and gloom.” El Cucui, in one incarnation or the other, is a much older phenomenon used to keep mischievous children in line.

Photo Credit: Alibi.com

There is one other major difference between the burnings of Zozobra and Kookooee: The auto-de-fé kicking off the Santa Fe Fiesta the first Thursday after Labor Day in Fort Marcy Park is a highly commercialized, tightly controlled, pay-per-view extravaganza, while El Coco’s death this past October 28 in Bravo State Park off Isleta Boulevard SW in Albuquerque was free and open to the public with the atmosphere of a neighborhood celebration. Take your pick.

Next Week: How men fold fitted sheets

New Posts are published at 6 a.m. each Thursday

Divine Intervention

The following is a piece of flash fiction I entered in a SouthWest Writer's contest where it won second place. Sorry, but it's a late Thanksgiving entry. Hope you enjoy it.

Jordy banged the screen as he barged out the back door on his way to the barnyard. Gramma usually yelled at him, but tomorrow was Thanksgiving. She’d be too busy to worry about slamming doors.

He liked watching the chickens scratch and the turkey strut. There was something grand about Tom Turkey. Goofy grand. The big black and gray feathers with white tips were awesome, but the bald, red head and bloody-looking beard were just plain gross. Tom walked and talked funny, too. First, his head darted forward, and then the rest of him just sorta caught up with it. His gobble made Jordy giggle.

#

I don’t like the way that kid’s looking at me. The big people are bad enough, but at least they feed a guy. This yahoo just stares like he knows something I don’t. Gives me the creeps.

I ambled over for a closer look, stopping now and then to peck a seed the hens had overlooked. He was a pale creature with icky yellow stuff on his head and teeny blue spots in his eyes—the only bits of color on the drab little fellow.

#

Jordy pictured Tom as he would look on Gramma’s table tomorrow, baked to a golden brown and giving off those great, mouth-watering smells. Jordy liked the dressing and giblet gravy Gramma served—even though he’d refused to eat the stuff for a long time because he’d seen her poking it up the bird’s heinie. But when he finally tried it, the stuffing was super.

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” he said. “You’re gonna taste sooo goood.”

He took a step backward as the bird sudenly raised a ruckus.

#

Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving was when turkeys went missing. My dad had disappeared the day before the last one. My feathers went stiff, and I raced in rapid circles. I gave an anguished gobble. No place to hide. No way out. I halted at the back gate and stared across the fields to the woods. So near, yet so far. I was doomed. Unless….

I turned and went on display, giving the kid my best strut. My magnificent ruffle feathers scraped the ground. My tail popped open like an awesome fan as I let out a plaintive gobble.

#

Jordy snatched a look at the bird on the platter as he took his place at the far end of the big table and bowed his head for Gampa’s Thanksgiving prayer.

“Dear Lord, we give heartfelt thanks for this great bounty we are about to receive.”

Jordy peeked up to find Grampa’s stern eyes fixed on him.

“Even though we’re having chicken on this Thanksgiving Day…due to what I can only attribute to Your Divine Intervention.

Jordy hid a knowing smile behind his reverently folded hands.

 Next Week: El Kookooee

A new post is published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday

A Word Picture of My Hometown, Circa 1949

Broken Bow was a lumber and farming town situated in the rolling hills and green forests of the “Little Dixie” Baptist bible belt of southeastern Oklahoma. The town sat nine miles west of Eagletown, an important Indian trading community on the Arkansas border back when the two states were known as Indian Territory. Eagletown, now reduced to no more than a nondescript service station, huddled beside the highway as busy travelers whizzed past without noticing. 

Broken Bow began life as an Indian village called Con Chito. Over the generations, it waxed and waned and died and revived until two brothers by the name of Dierks incorporated the community in 1911, naming it after their hometown in Nebraska. 

The town of roughly 2,500 souls fastened itself to the narrow blacktop highway coming in from Arkansas and the railroad tracks paralleling it. Most commercial businesses clustered along the two paved downtown streets running north from the highway and a couple of graveled roads pacing them on the east and on the west. The Dierks Lumber Company sawmill, the town’s largest employer, lay on the other side of the railroad tracks where the highway turned south and ran twelve miles through open farm country to Idabel, the McCurtain County seat, and beyond to the rich river bottoms. From there, it crossed into Texas after another twenty miles. 

Broken Bow was the kind of place where no one knew his own address. A family lived three blocks east of the feed store and one block south, second house on the left, or some such descriptive direction. There weren't even street signs when I was a child. There was no postal delivery, except for rural routes. Town mail was collected from rented boxes or the free general delivery window at the post office. 

Generations of children had measured their growth by running down the sidewalk on Main Street and jumping to touch the rafters of the wooden overhang protecting pedestrians from the blazing sun or heavy rain squalls. The drug store on the uphill corner of this block-long shaded section boasted a soda fountain, making it a magnet for the younger set. 

The town’s most popular Saturday night pastime was parking head-in to the curb along the main drag, as near the drug store as possible. Entire families sat in their cars and trucks to indulge in some serious people watching until it was time for the picture show half a block down on the other side of the street. It was a good way to keep up with budding teenage romances and the state of the neighbors’ marital relationships. Sartorial splendor was considered anything beyond a gingham housedress and bib overalls. 

The Broken Bow High Savages annually engaged the Idabel Warriors in the “Little River Rumble,” one of the oldest football rivalries in the state. Back then, the schools were segregated, of course, and remained that way until 1964. In fact, although we were in the midst of the Choctaw Nation, I don’t recall attending class with any Natives except two boys a few years behind me. However, the school secretary was a Native American…a Hopi import from distant New Mexico. For what it’s worth, the first year two black players were permitted on the team, Broken Bow High won the championship in their division. 

I fondly remember the town as an easy-going, not much happening place where my grandmother and I would rock on the porch in the early summer evenings, while my grandfather sliced open a plump, red-meat watermelon. The setting sun caught in the topmost branches of the chinaberry tree in the front yard and played among leaves ruffled by a gentle breeze. Often, as heat waves slowly dissipated on the asphalt highway and the delicate scent of roses and hydrangeas and morning glories flooded the porch, we’d hear a family on the far side of the railroad tracks harmonizing familiar gospel songs. Sometimes we joined right in. I’ve always wondered if they could hear us as clearly as we heard them.

Next Week:  A Flash Fiction Story

A new post is published at 6 a.m. each Thursday

Wallowing in Nostalgia

The last three posts describing the trip my friend, Joycelyn, and I took to the Jemez Valley triggered powerful emotions. Since that time, I’ve been thinking a great deal about my late wife, Betty. So much so that I’d like to publish the letter my younger son, Grant, and I delivered to the staff at Kindred Hospital the morning of Betty’s death. 

February 12, 2009 

Kindred Hospital

700 High Street NE

Albuquerque, NM 87102 

Dear Friends: 

We would like to thank you for the care and courtesy you extended Betty and me, our family, and the friends who visited during her stay there—including, of course, Gizmo, the little white Papillion. We will each have our say here, but first, I would like to channel Betty’s thoughts as she would express them were she able: 

Hello, to all of you. You are an extraordinary group of people: professional, competent, but most important to me…caring and compassionate. You did your very best for me, and I am sorry I was not strong enough to allow you to see more positive results from your efforts. Alas, I wasn’t. Too old and weak from my illness, I guess. But my family and I will always remember that you were there for me, offering your best care, always delivered with respect and, I like to think, fondness. Even though I have slipped away, please let my feelings spur you to offer the same level of professional and personal treatment to others who may better benefit from them. You mend broken bodies, ease tortured minds, and provide an environment where the soul is nurtured. Always, always remember this and take pride in it. Goodbye, thank you, and God Bless. 

Now, may I, Donald, add my opinion. I echo Betty’s thoughts and feelings about Kindred and its staff, both professional and administrative. During the nine or so weeks my wife was under your care, I received the utmost support from everyone I met. My requests were honored, my wife was well tended…and adored. You made it easy to admit her, gave her excellent medical care, helped me wend my way through the financial morass, nourished me in your excellent cafeteria, and showed concern for me while I sat with Betty every day she was with you. This includes everyone from the medics to the maintenance personnel. In other words, you delivered human compassion in addition to professional care. When it was obvious the end was near, we made it known we wanted Betty to die at Kindred among friends, not at some hospice in the midst of strangers. 

Most of you met my son, Grant, and his wife, Anna, and both have often commented on the extraordinary care Betty was receiving. They were made to feel their opinions were as important as mine. And for this, we all thank you. The guests who came to see my wife were also favorably impressed. We cannot all be wrong. As far as we are concerned, the evidence is in: you are a very special group of people. And in this, we are joined by Gizmo, whom everyone met at one time or the other, including some of your patients. 

Once again, thank you for the care, concern, and love bestowed upon our family in an extremely difficult time of our lives. We will remember it forever. God bless you for your humanity. Please share this effort to express our gratitude with everyone at the hospital. 

From the bottom of our hearts,

Dear readers, forgive me for going maudlin.

Next week: A word picture of my home town.

A new post is published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday

A Magical Trip Through an Enchanted Land (Finale)

J and I headed north up the mountain from Battleship Rock on NM Road 4 full of anticipation. Our goals of enjoying New Mexico’s fall mountain foliage and finding J’s favorite picnic and hiking area had been so fulfilling I wondered if our expectations of Valles Caldera would live up to my memories. J had never seen the place, and I hoped I hadn’t over-billed it.

Again, we traveled through familiar territory, one that held so many family memories. Betty still rode with us. We entered Dark Canyon, a place where the ground on the right side of the road fell away sharply, giving only glimpses of the Jemez River rushing below. We passed an area where what we called “hippies” at the time bathed nude in the cold waters and then climbed the hill on the other side to find exposed spots to sunbathe. My sons always made sure the binoculars were at hand as we approached the place, but we never stopped, despite their protests. 

This was the road where one August day we came barreling down the mountainside to find the left side completely washed out, eaten away by the monsoon rains. August was when we got most of the annual rainfall at the cabin. During that month, I often had to find a place to park my car in the lowlands. Betty and the boys would drive down to meet me in the Blazer. We had a winch on the front bumper and figured we could go anywhere in that plucky vehicle. 

As J and I emerged from the canyon, we encountered larger numbers of aspens shimmering among the dark evergreens in the light breeze. They are always a delight, whether they quake with the gold of autumn or the two-toned green of spring and summer. I say two-toned because their leaves are dark on top and pale on the bottom. 

Then we had our first glimpse of the massive grassland of the caldera. As we rounded the curve, the depth and breadth of the place was revealed, and I knew I hadn’t made a mistake. There was no way to oversell this place. As I’ve said, it is the most beautiful spot in the world…at least to me. The Grand Canyon and a hundred other places might be more dramatic, but for pastoral peace and serenity, the Valle Grande (the front portion of the caldera) cannot be surpassed. 

When my family and I had passed by the place on the way to and from the cabin, Valle Grande (as it was known then) had been a privately owned ranch, so we were unable to visit the place. Now it is a National Preserve open to the public. Finally, after all these years, I was able to nose my automobile down the long, winding (and somewhat rough) road onto the property to a modest visitor’s center in the middle of Valle Grande. And “modest” is an appropriate description since it leaves little imprint on the place.  



The Valle Grande Portion of the Valles Caldera National Preserve
Source: Wickipedia

The Valles Caldera (or Kettle) is a volcano fourteen miles in diameter (175 square miles) that exploded some 1.2 to 1.4 million years ago and then collapsed in upon itself. The eruption spewed up 150 cubic miles of rock and blasted lava and ash as far away as Iowa. It was estimated to be 2,000 times as powerful as the Mt. St. Helens explosion. The cabin my family and I owned was on the back side of the caldera, meaning over a mountain range or two. Often, as we walked the forest, we’d come upon huge boulders that had no way of reaching there…unless they had come from the sky. 

The Bear Paw as seen from above
Source: Wickipedia

The caldera is made up of a vast expanse of grasslands free of any trees and mountain country covered by Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. The grasslands had been badly overgrazed in the past, but seem to be recovering well. The timber had been heavily harvested for some time, but many of the old growth trees still remain. As you approach the visitor’s center, an odd knoll appears in front of you...a 250-foot, pine covered bump sitting in the middle of this vast meadow of yellow autumn grass. This is Cerro La Jara, a Rhyolite dome created by the pressure of magma underneath area. It is one of several such domes that, when viewed from the air, create a pattern resembling a bear’s paw. The area remains geologically active, as demonstrated by these building domes and numerous hot springs in the vicinity.

Archaeologists tell us the Jemez Valley has been occupied for 4,500 years. Camps have been found where natives of the area came to work the obsidian stones thrown up by the volcano. The local Santa Clara Pueblo Indians still come to collect these stones and consider the area…particularly nearby Redondo Peak and the adjoining Redondito…to be sacred. 

Recorded history begins when a sheepherder named Baca in the vicinity of present day Las Vegas, NM complained to authorities that his large Royal Land Grant was being encroached on by others. The dispute dragged on until after the old man’s death. In 1876 his five sons were given 500,000 acres in five different, non-contiguous tracts in exchange for permitting others to graze their original land grant. Each son took one tract. The 100,000 acres encompassing the Caldera was designated as Baca 1. The son who took this tract grazed sheep here until he traded the property to another sheepherder named Otero. In the 1930s, Otero traded the tract to Frank Bond, an Espanola sheepherder, who grazed as many as 30,000 sheep on the place. 

In 1963, the Bonds sold the property to Pat Dunigan, a rancher from Abilene, Texas. While Dunigan ran cattle on the caldera, his primary interest was in developing an electrical power plant using the geothermal activity beneath the surface. Several wells were sunk, but he could never develop sufficient power to support such a plant. He began to look for a buyer for the property, and considered the federal government as the most likely purchaser. The feds finally bought 95,000 acres (5,000 acres were deeded over to the Santa Clara Pueblo), paying over $100,000,000. In July of 2000, the Valles Caldera Preservation Act created the Valles Caldera National Preserve and opened it to the public on a limited basis. 

Cerro la Jara, a Rhyolite Lava Dome
Source: Wickipedia

For the princely sum of $5.00 each, J and I boarded a van with nine other sightseers and enjoyed a forty-five minute tour of a small portion of the property. (These guided tours are conduced only on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday). The ride-along was worth every minute and every penny. We saw the homes of all four of the owners, one of which was being used as headquarters for elk hunts going on at the time. Permits are extremely limited and by lottery only. That particular house is currently being used as the home of the sheriff on the TV series Longmire. Scenes from the program regularly feature vistas from the caldera. Several movies and TV programs have been made in part or in whole in the caldera. 

In July of 2011, the Las Conchas Fire, which ultimately consumed 158,000 acres, burned 30,000 acres of the Valles Caldera. Rows and rows of trees to the west of the Valle Grande stand black and naked as a result of the wild fire. Some of the grasslands were burned, as well, but recovered quickly. That same fire consumed about 60% of the Bandelier National Monument in nearby Frijoles Canyon. 

I do not have the words to adequately describe the beauty and serenity of this magical place, so I encourage readers who live or travel in this part of the country to experience the place for themselves. On the way to the caldera, J and I talked more or less incessantly. On the return to Albuquerque, the cabin of the car was silent more often than not. I attribute that to our awe of the Valles Caldera. 

Next week: Nostalgia

A Magical Trip Through an Enchanted Land (Continued)

Last week, I took you through the first leg of the journey my friend J and I took three weeks ago. On the second segment of the trip, we entered the Jemez Valley, a place that has seen human habitatation for something like 4,500 years. You understand, of course, I cannot vouch for that personally.

J's Photo of some of the fall colors

We departed San Ysidro on NM Road 4 and almost immediately encountered what was the first of our stated goals: New Mexico’s vivid fall colors. Mother Nature displayed some of her finest raiment for us, especially along the Jemez River bottom off to our left. The gradual (but continuous) climb to Jemez Springs was a pleasant drive on a gently curving paved road. We knew we were getting close when we passed Jemez Pueblo, from which the town of Jemez Springs takes its name. This Towa reservation (Traditional Name: Walatowa) is a closed Pueblo. Outsiders are allowed on the reservation only during feast days, which are announced with a minimum of fanfare. The tribal authorities welcome visitors to the Walatowa Center, but claim they do not have facilities to accommodate tourists on the Pueblo, itself. The tribe is known for its excellent distance runners. One of the Jemez Runners won the race up Pike’s Peak several years in a row. 

My family and I once attended the wedding reception for the niece of a woman I worked with in one of the Pueblo homes (by invitation). My sons were small at the time, and I recalled them being excited at the prospect of seeing some “real Indians.” While we ate delicious home-cooked native dishes, my elder son, Clai, went outside to play with some other kids. Later, we looked out the window and saw one blond head amid a host of dark-haired children. As we were leaving for home later, Clai complained he hadn’t seen the Indians we promised. When we told him he’d been playing with them all afternoon, he wrinkled his nose. “No, I mean real Indians with feathers and flowers in their hair.” 

And speaking of hair color. One young man at the reception took a fancy to my late wife, Betty…or probably Betty’s bright, coppery hair. As we pulled out of the driveway he walked beside the car holding onto her hand and staring at her wistfully.

J and I pulled into Jemez Springs, a peaceful village spread out along the Jemez River. It is a place famous for hot mineral springs. The Catholic Church has placed its imprint on the town with the presence of the Congregation of the Servants of the Paraclete and the Handmaids of the Precious Blood. Among its other functions, the Congregation is said to receive and counsel errant priests. The Kiowa author, M. Scott Momaday, who won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for his novel, House Made of Dawn, maintained a retirement home here until 2011.

Soda Dam on Jemez River

We drove through the town to Soda Dam, where a centuries-long buildup of minerals has virtually blocked the Jemez River and formed a waterfall. I used to stop there with my wife and sons so the boys could explore the area and watch venturesome swimmers slide down the waterfall into the pool below. Then we would soak our feet in the hot sulphur spring across the road before either leaving for home or proceeding into the mountains to our cabin.

J's Photo of the prow of Battleship Rock

Farther to the north of the dam, we rounded a curve and caught a glimpse the impressive Battleship Rock. It truly does look like the prow of a mighty sea vessel…probably of a warlike nature. The picnic and hiking area J wanted to visit was at the base of the Monument. Unfortunately, I parked in the wrong place and we had to walk down a pretty steep trail to reach the area. Readers of this blog will recall I had a back operation to repair a herniated disk and to relieve my severe stenosis of the lower lumbar region about two months earlier, so I was still walking with a cane. My doctors and physical therapist would have been horrified when I tackled some steep steps made of stacked railroad ties (with no handrail), but I maneuvered them without mishap. When we reached the bottom, the area was as enchanting as J had said, but the thing that caught my immediate attention was the paved road snaking through the park.

J's Photo of her favorite picnic and hiking area at the foot of
Battleship Rock

This was our second goal, and it was as worthy and rewarding at the first. Peaceful trails meandered up either side of the river rushing down the mountainside. We walked (J much farther and faster than I) along the trails and among picnic tables and covered pavilions with fire places. We had the park virtually to ourselves and enjoyed the gently swaying trees, a few squirrels and birds. We watched a fascinating play of reflected sunlight dapple a black basalt rock at the riverside. My contentment with the place was marred only by the thought of mounting those rough steps on the way back. In the end, we elected to follow the road which met the highway a quarter of a mile or so to the south of our parked car. I was tired and leaning on the cane more than usual by the time we got there. But it was worth the effort.

Then we headed north to accomplish our last goal.

Next week: Valles Caldera

A Magical Trip Through an Enchanted Land

Two weeks ago, my friend and critique partner, Joycelyn (hereinafter known as “J”), and I drove out of Albuquerque on Interstate-25 for a trip through New Mexico’s Jemez Mountain country. We had three goals: to take in the beautiful, vivid autumn mountain foliage, to spend some time at a picturesque picnic and hiking area J knew north of Jemez Springs, and to visit the most beautiful place on earth—the magnificent Valles Caldera south of Los Alamos.

Sandia Pueblo Flag

Less than fifteen miles north of home, we passed Sandia Pueblo, a fourteenth century Tiwa Indian village, which still bustles today. Its traditional name, Na-Fiat, meant the “Place Where the Wind Blows,” although today, the natives referred to it as the “Green Reed Place.” This was a reference to the two hundred-mile grove of cottonwoods lining the banks of the Rio Grande known as the Bosque, which ran through part of the reservation. 

A few miles up the road, we forsook I-25 to drive through Bernalillo, a town formally established by Don Diego de Vargas in 1695, although it was a center of Spanish and Pueblo trading long before this date. This was the village from whence the intrepid souls set out to found Villa de Alburquerque (see my post of August 9, 2012 to learn how we lost the second “R” in Albuquerque). 

Upon departing the town via US Route 550, we crossed onto the Santa Ana Pueblo (traditional name: Tamaya). There were the three distinct villages on the reservation, and most families, I am given to understand, maintained two homes…the second of which was in the Old Pueblo some eight miles northwest of Bernalillo, a place mainly used for traditional ceremonies and rituals. 

From there, I turned my 2002 Buick LeSabre up 550 toward our destination. I should explain at this point that my late wife, Betty, and I had a cabin in Los Pinos Canyon deep in the Jemez Mountains, so I had driven this route weekly (except in the winter months) for a number of years. During the summers, Betty and my sons, Clai and Grant, often remained at the isolated cabin weeks at a time while I drove back and forth on weekends. There was (and is) a Blake’s Lottaburger just outside of Bernalillo where we stopped both coming and going because they had the best hamburgers in the state. I must admit, I felt my Betty riding along with J and me on this Sunday excursion. I remembered so many things we had done and places we had explored when my two sons were small and there was no hint of illness or death on the horizon.  

Zia Flag with famous Sun Symbol

A few miles up the highway, we passed Zia Pueblo (Tsi’ ja in Keres), often known as the invisible pueblo. The village actually sat in plain view on a knoll to the right of the road, but it blended in so well with the environment it was difficult to see. But once you spotted the church, the rest of the village began to take shape. Its inhabitants are known for their fine jewelry making. The village may be hard to spot, but its Sun symbol is everywhere you look in the State of New Mexico. We took this traditional Zia symbol as its official symbol. It is everywhere from our state flag to our road signs. 

A church in San Ysidro

We passed a small white mountain which was mined for high-grade gypsum for a number of years. The ore was hauled to an Albuquerque wallboard manufacturer. There the road took a long curve to the north, and crossed a bridge over a dry Rio Salado before entering San Ysidro. This old Spanish village was established in 1699 as a farming community by one Juan Trujillo, who named it after Saint Isadore the Farmer…or San Ysidro. The village sat at the southern end of the Jemez Valley at the junction of US Route 550 and New Mexico Road 4. The latter was the gateway to the Jemez Mountains and our stated goals. 

That’s a lot of history, folks, and we haven’t yet achieved any of our three stated goals. 

Next Week: Entering the Jemez Valley

Bisti Business Cover Art

Well, folks, the second BJ Vinson mystery is out. Above is the cover art for the book. I kinda like it. Hope you do, too. It's available as an ebook or in paperback form through Amazon and Barnes and Noble (online).

Have as much fun reading it as I had writing it!

Sorry, I had to put in a plug for my work.